"Thoughts that breathed and words that burn'd;"
but they knew that the key of eloquence must be applied not to the head but to the heart. But, sir, I digress from the speech of Mr. Donaldson. (Pardon me—I am in the habit of illustrating to my boys, and dissertation is my fault, or rather I should say my habit.) Well, sir, as I have said, he stuck fast in the speech which his son had written; but, as I have also said, he had too high an opinion of himself to stand long without saying something. When left to himself, in what he did say, I am afraid he "betrayed his birth and breeding;" for there was loud laughter in the hall, and cries of hear him! hear him! But the poll commenced; the other candidate brought voters from five hundred miles' distance—from east, west, north, and south—from Scotland, Ireland and the Continent. He polled a vote at every three proclamations, when Mr. Donaldson had no more to bring forward; and on the fourteenth day he defeated him by a majority of ONE! The right worshipful thatcher declared that the election had fallen on the opposing candidate. The people also said that he had spent most money, and that it was right the election should fall on the best man. He, in truth, had spent more in the contest than Andrew Donaldson had won by his lottery ticket. The feelings of Mr. Donaldson on the loss of his election were the agonies of extreme dispair. In the height of his misery he mentioned to his introducer, Captain Edwards—or rather I should call him his traducer—that he was a ruined man; that he had lost his all. The captain laughed and left the room. He seemed to have left the town also; for his victim did not meet with him again.
In a state bordering on frenzy, he returned to London. He reached the hotel—he rushed into the room where his wife, his son, and his daughter sat. With a confused and hurried step he paced to and fro across the floor, wringing his hands, and ever and anon exclaiming, bitterly—
"Lost Andrew Donaldson!—Ruined Andrew Donaldson!"
His son Peter, who took the matter calmly, and who believed that the extent of the loss was the loss of the election, carefully surveyed his father's attitudes and the expression of his countenance, and thought the scene before him would make an admirable subject for a picture—the piece to be entitled, "The Unsuccessful Candidate." "It will help to make good his loss," thought Peter, "provided he will sit."
"Oh dearsake, Andrew! Andrew!—what is't?" cried Mrs. Donaldson.
"Lost! lost! ruined Andrew Donaldson!" replied her husband.
"Oh, where is the Captain?—where is Edwards? Why is he not here?" asked Rebecca.
"The foul fiend?" exclaimed her father.
"O Andrew, man—speak! Andrew, jewel—what is't?" added his wife; "if it be only the loss o' siller, Heaven be praised! for I've neither had peace nor comfort since ye got it."